Blur
by Maleeda
Summary: Part one of my lame Rent-fic...which will soon turn into Mark-Roger slash, yay!


Autumn cut through the loft's window, arranging itself in patterns across faded   
sheets. The familiar slam of the front door let Mark know that Roger had left the   
apartment. He counted the 9 10 11 12 heavy, even steps it took Roger to reach the   
stairwell, open the door and jog down the steps.   
  
When the yellow-stained ceiling grew too dull to stare at, he rolled to the left and   
pretended he had a stereo. In his head, Santana and that guy from Matchbox20 worked   
something heavy and cool, twanging voice and smooth guitar grinding together as Mark   
imagined wet, lean Spanish women slithering around the room. Wrinkling his nose, he   
grabbed an imaginary remote control and skipped to a pristine version of Fania Fenelon   
singing "Un bel di." The flexible, slick girls disappeared one by one while the   
soundtrack in his head continued as he went over his vague plans for the day. Nothing   
promising. He thought he'd call Collins and see if Mr. Philosophy could get him into the   
media labs for some editing, but that's about it. Mark had been trying to do as little as   
possible since Mimi's funeral--the idea was that he'd always be around if Roger needed   
anything. Anything. But things hadn't worked out the way he had expected. Roger had   
been upset, sure, Mark thought, after all, the dents in the already bumpy surface of the   
wall could attest to that. What was really worrying him was the fact that Roger was   
actually functioning. If Mark had learned anything in all their years of friendship, it was   
that Roger had a habit of allowing grief and ill-humour to take over his life. After all of   
the wall-punching and stony silences, Roger had woken up one morning, called his   
bandmates and made arrangements for the next rehearsal. Just like that. Gigs weren't   
exactly rolling in, but he was doing business. * That asshole has more of a life than I do,   
Mark admitted ruefully, and there's something wrong with that. * Mark didn't believe for   
a second that Roger had bought into that "no day but today" crap. Basically, he was   
living in a constant state of wariness, waiting around for that other shoe to drop, and   
when it did, he hoped to god he'd be there with a safety net.  
  
Rubbing his hands over his face, Mark rolled off the mattress and got to his feet.   
He'd fallen into the habit of sleeping in his clothes--pants, shoes and all. Sure, it was   
kind of gross, but no one really cared what he smelled like anyway, and besides, it made   
life a hell of a lot easier. He splashed some cold water on his face, grabbed his coat and   
scarf, and headed for the door. Catching his reflection in the shining glass of the   
window, Mark stopped. He'd lost some weight, and his sleeves hung raggedly off of   
spider arms. Every cowlick on his head stood straight up, tight blonde curls poking out in   
every conceivable direction. His already pale skin appeared translucent. He hoped it was   
just the light, because he looked like death, well, death if death would be caught dead in a   
plaid coat. Grimacing, he rubbed at red-rimmed eyes and thought of Roger's calm good   
looks, at the face that always seemed scrubbed and fresh. * Shit *, Mark heard himself think.   
* His girlfriend dies, he's got AIDS, and I'm the one suffering.* He instantly felt guilty for   
the thought. Scratching at his collar as he walked out the door, Mark pursed his cupid   
bow mouth. It felt as though he'd been wearing the same sweater for 5 years.   
  
***  
  
It had never been before, but it was the case now that the simple fact of Mark   
caring was enough. Roger didn't know quite why, but he knew it was true. It occurred to   
Roger that he was the only man his age he knew who actually still had a "best friend."   
Besides Mark, of course. Sometimes, with their jokes, dogpiles, constant chatter and, of   
course, the candy bar wrappers all over the floor, it seemed like more of a clubhouse than   
a home. What made it home was Mark's presence, that excitable voice which could   
range from dry sarcasm to high-pitched incredulity and irritation in 0-6 seconds, the   
ubiquitous camera, that habit he had of pushing thick-framed glasses up the bridge of his   
nose with his middle finger. As terribly cheesy as it sounded, it had taken all of this shit--  
the virus, death, April, Angel, Mimi, all of it--to allow Roger to appreciate Mark. Mark   
was everything that Roger wasn't, so full of concern for everyone else. He spent his   
energy on caring for his friends, and then, used whatever was left for himself. Roger   
wished every day, every fucking day, that he could take back what he had said last   
Halloween. He knew that Mark had forgotten it, surely, unless he'd gotten it on film, but   
nevertheless, the words hovered in the back of Roger's head. He'd never apologized, not   
out loud, anyway. He thought about it all the time, usually when he was watching Mark   
sleep early in the morning. Speaking of things he hadn't told Mark, he also hadn't told   
him about the whole sleep-watching thing. *Wouldn't that just be perfect? As if he   
doesn't think I'm fucked up enough already, he needs to know that I stare at him when   
he's tossing and turning at 7 A.M..*  
  
***  
  
*Shit,* Mark thought,* he must be pretty fucked up if he watches me sleep at 7 A.M..*   
He wasn't at all sure what all that was about, but he knew it must have something to do   
with Mimi. *He must be so afraid of losing me too.*  
  
***  
  
The more Roger thought about it, the more he realized that it didn't have anything   
at all to do with losing Mark. The opposite, even—Mark was the one thing in his life,   
including his life, that Roger wasn't afraid of losing, because somewhere, buried under   
layers of doubt, he knew that he couldn't lose Mark. That it wouldn't happen, ever.   
When it came down to it, it would be the other way around. Mark was both stable and   
stabilizing--two things Mimi and April had never been. *Why couldn't Mark be   
a--* Roger stopped himself. If he wasn't mistaken, he was about to say, "Why couldn't   
Mark be a girl?" *What the fuck was that supposed to mean?*  
  



End file.
